Otherside
by poetanddidntknowit34
Summary: Danger Nights. That's what Mycroft called them, but John didn't know why he thought they still existed. Did they?


Danger Nights. That's what Mycroft called them, though John never got why he still thought they existed. Sherlock had been clean for years before John came around, and even now, it was only the hazardous amounts of Nicotine patches he would stick all over his body at one time that John felt he needed to worry about.

**_Shoebox_**

**_Razors_**

**_Bags_**

**_White_**

But, being a doctor, he sat with Sherlock for the whole night. The man only paced a trench around the living room, mumbling about this case or that case, or Lestrade, or Anderson's stupidity; occasionally he glanced up and would say something directly to John, as if they had been in conversation the whole time. He continued that pattern for several hours, stopping sometimes and saying "Three weeks!" before throwing his arms up in frustration and going back to his pacing. Three weeks since the last case. It's a long time for a genius.

**_Porcelain_**

**_Lines_**

**_Powder_**

**_Hesitation_**

Sherlock had collapsed on the couch and into sleep, so John had left him there to go to bed himself. Though, sleep didn't come. He only stared at the ceiling, his mind still out in the living room. Was it a Danger Night? Did those still exist? John had searched the whole apartment, stripping it clean and putting it back together, before Sherlock got home, and the detective never left his sight after he had. Still...

**_Fire_**

**_Ice_**

**_Stimulus_**

**_Black_**

John's dozing mind conjured an image. _Sherlock lay on the couch, just where John had left him the night before. It was morning, in fact it was well into the morning. Sherlock should get up and get dressed. Scotland Yard could call any moment. He called his friend's name. Nothing. He shook him. Quiet. Harder. The calls were louder. The silence was deafening. John understands what happened. He screams now. He uses his fists now. He begs his friend to answer. But he never got up. He never got up._

**_Nothing_**

**_Everything_**

**_Gripping_**

**_Slipping_**

John shot up. He caught his breath, but only for a second, before he was down the stairs, leaping from the third step and landing agilely in the hall. The couch was empty. The bathroom door was open. John slowed down and approached the room. He stood in the entryway, and all he saw was the back. The back of a white shirt, hanging open in the front, as if the wearer was going to get changed, but decided to do something else. The back of black suit pants, and bare feet, curled against the tiles. The back of knuckles and elegant fingers, white from the grip they had on the sink. The back of jet black curls, trembling slightly; the back of a head staring into the basin.

**_Slipped_**

Sherlock raised his head slowly and stared into the mirror. A small stream of crimson started from his nose and gently ran down and over the crest of his lips, the red stark against his pale skin, like bold print on white paper. John was unsure whether or not his friend knew he was there. Until he spoke. Drawn out, effortful, thick, deep, lost. His voice sounded as if it had lifted his burdens and demons and carried them to the edge of his heart, dropping them to tumble, spiral, spin, land, in the heavy words he offered to the mirror. "I always said I'd never do this. Not me, not that drug. And growing up, no one ever does. Until you're stuck. Living on the cusp of death, living above it all. Then laying yourself bare in front of your reflection, you barely see who you were. Disbelieving who you've become. But bloodshot eyes and bleeding noses don't lie, John. The skin no longer fits the mind inside. The body no longer controlled by the one it was formed to follow. Selling dreams and potential to escape in a buzz, never liking the drop at the end. Always wanting to stay up." He paused. "Just to keep me up."

**_Shattered_**

John hadn't realized he had started crying. But he felt the knot in his chest tighten, when Sherlock finally met his eyes in the mirror. "And you would think I'd be smarter than this," He stood up straight and waved his hand over the sink. A razor blade laying on the metal shelf under the medicine cabinet, lonely streaks of white dust waiting to be upset by the slightest kiss of wind. "Smarter than the cheating, the lying, the stealing. The rush. The broken and hopeless feeling when you hit the ground. You never want to hit the ground. The problems gone, taking the solution to fix the pieces inside. All the while, sinking, drowning. Until there's no sea left." He spun around to look John straight in the face, shaking from head to toe, anger in his face. "But even genius has it's stupidity. And I found mine. Weakness and strength all the same time. Everything piling upon itself until the damn bursts, and I find myself here." He took a ragged, shuddering breath. "And I don't even know where I am."

Sherlock's knees gave out, and John caught him, both landing on the floor in a heap of tears. Sobs pulling, tearing, echoing, shattering.

**_Tiles_**

**_Cold_**

**_Clinging_**

**_Searching_**

John held Sherlock as tight as he could. Whispering, "It's OK. It's going to be OK." He knew now. Danger Nights are real. Critical, pressing, exposed, vulnerable nights.

**_Forgiveness_**

**_Truth_**

**_Living_**

**_Loving_**

"I harmed us." Sherlock's voice was hoarse and broken. "I injured myself for years. I could live with that. But I've dragged you down with me. Sinking us both." Breathing. Gasping, gulping, struggling, needy breaths.

**_Reaching_**

**_Trying_**

**_Spinning_**

**_Returning_**

"We're not sinking, Sherlock." John was winding down himself. There was silence. Comforting, pleading, gentle silence. Quiet filled with truth. With hope.

**_Sea_**

**_Swimming_**

**_Potential_**

**_Finding_**

"We're going to help each other swim."

**_Found_**

* * *

_Otherside by Macklemore_


End file.
